Pathetic Fallacy
by Kathleen Mavourneen
Summary: Pathetic fallacy - to attribute human emotion to nature. The grass bowed in solidarity while he hung his head, and all he needed, to make it complete, was a thunderstorm.


This story was uploaded some time ago under a different alias, Blooregard Q. Kazoo. However, after several stagnant years of non-updating, I finally took a peak at my stories, and I was horribly disappointed in my writing. I've re-vamped my works, and created a new account as a "fresh start." For those who do not remember this story: 007 mourns in front of Sophie's grave stone.

 **PATHETIC FALLACY**

 _Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player_

 _That struts and frets his hour upon the stage_

 _And then is heard no more: it is a tale_

 _Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,_

 _Signifying nothing._

 _-Shakespeare's Macbeth_

He couldn't remember the name of the bar. Perhaps it was "The Howling Something," or maybe "The Underground What-Have-You." Either way, it was his type of bar. Everything was old and shades of brown and red. Dark red wallpaper with thick, wooden picture frames. A gilded mirror, and book shelves filled with dusty tomes, probably un-opened for several years. He feared to pick one up - the spine would probably crack and fill the air with particles and bits of spider's web. The faux leather seat of the bar stools were a dark green, a very nice compliment to the intricate, mahogany counter top at which he sat. The bartender did not have to clean. The stale air and dustiness were but a feature of the image the owners tried to convey. He ran a finger over the lip of the bar - a thick pad of dust covered his skin.

It was quite late on the weekend, and this bar did not play loud music. The crowd was much older than what you would typically see at this hour. He sipped his scotch, nursed it to the point where it watered down and his glass left a puddle of condensation soaked up by the coaster.

He sighed - a loud, drawn-out exhale of breath that was probably more dramatic than he intended. The bartender perked up, and looked over at Great Britain. Seeing the still-full glass of scotch, he raised his eyebrows quizzically before asking, "What's the matter?"

Great Britain did not know where to start. Maybe he should start from the beginning - the part where he woke up with mechanical parts and some weird concoction for skin that allowed him to transform to whatever he wished. No... While that would not necessarily get him kicked out of the bar, he would certainly witness the man in the adjacent seat move over. He would start slightly earlier than that, on a bright career that ended too abruptly.

"I used to be famous. I was a world-renowned Shakespearean actor. But look at me now..." He pulled on his jacket, and poked a finger through a hole in the seam, emphasizing his less-than-world-renowned attire.

The bartender's countenance softened just enough to warrant a small tip from the melancholic Great Britain.

The few sips of scotch were not enough to get him drunk - just tired. He pulled out his time piece: slightly after midnight. Since his drink was half water by now, he downed it quickly before tossing some money on the counter. He jogged up the noisy steps and onto the cobblestone.

He looked to either side, wondering what to do. Should he simply return home and sleep, or would the quick intake of alcohol give him a second wind?

He thought for a moment - and then he knew exactly where he would go. Unfortunately, there were no flower stores open at this hour, and he thought it would be strange to visit his ex-girlfriend without any sort of token.

"Oh, well... As the often-overused phrase goes: beggars cannot be choosers. And I am, most certainly..." He looked down and saw his face in a puddle - tired, dark eyes, no hair, no future - "a beggar."

His walk was wet and dreary, but still scenic. The cobblestones, darkened by rain, had a slippery sheen of liquid that reflected all the lights of passing cars. He walked until the brick buildings were further apart, and an iron fence blocked off a square patch of blue-tinted, well-groomed grass.

He knew exactly where to go. He passed old headstones overgrown by weeds, and an overly large statue that marked the grave of someone who, at one point in time, was probably very important.

He kept walking until he found a newer, pink-tinted stone. He crouched down, trying not to sit or kneel on the wet grass, and outstretched his fingers. They lingered in the open air for a moment, tentative, before finally making contact.

Fingers traced every contour of every letter, and the reflective stone, lacking any chips or marring moss of fleeting years, allowed him to see his own mourning. Her death was recent. He hung his head a little lower. If she had died while he was fighting for his own life, or the life of others, and the fuel of seeing her again, of apologizing, kept his fists clenched and gun level... Well, he could have forgiven himself. With a little time, and a little burning, amber-colored scotch. He was a writer and an actor - he drank scotch. Cheap, burning scotch. Perhaps, upon the news of her death, he would have written her a tragic sonnet! Shakespearean, of course, not Petrarchan.

But, no. His thoughts, not once, glanced her way. No pointer-finger prodding, waking the memory of her, and she died, raising a child that might be his - though he was too afraid to really know - and wondering if he ever thought of her. Or, perhaps, she died knowing he _never_ thought of her. In his opinion, as a man of learning, Wordsworth put it best: _Through what power, even for the least division of an hour, have I been so beguiled as to be blind to my most grievous loss?_

He watched wind prostrate the long grass surrounding her mound of earth. A faint smile - not quite a smile, really, more of a smirk because his lips only curled on one side of his face - wrinkled his skin.

 _Pathetic fallacy_. To attribute human emotion to nature. The grass bowed in solidarity while he hung his head, and all he needed, to make it complete, was a thunderstorm.

But pathetic fallacy is a literary device, nothing more. He did not want pathetic fallacy, an empathetic nature with whom he could grieve. In the real world, man is alone. In the real world, the grass bows because of the wind, and the clouds roll back to reveal a clear night sky.


End file.
